


stealing a mariachi band’s violin

by royalworldtraveler



Series: That’s The Dream [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mexico, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Plays the Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalworldtraveler/pseuds/royalworldtraveler
Summary: new series! hopefully someone loves POV sherlock as much as i do. check out the end notes :)





	stealing a mariachi band’s violin

**Author's Note:**

> new series! hopefully someone loves POV sherlock as much as i do. check out the end notes :)

Sherlock has many dreams. Vivid dreams, strange dreams, sometimes quite embarrassing dreams that wake him in a sheen of cold sweat and the thumping of too-rapid heartbeat. This is not common knowledge.

That is, not until Mexico. 

He and John are in Oaxaca on holiday, a fact that Sherlock feigns disinterest in, but is actually extremely excited about. London is his city, his and _John’s_ city, a perfect cocktail of danger, disaster, and crime, his woven streets and his cozy flat and his homeless network as familiar to him as his mind palace. This being said, however much he refuses to vocalize it, a break is nice. Well, a break with John is nice. A two-week-long trip across the ocean alone would drive him mad with boredom, no doubt, and he doesn’t know how lenient the police force in Mexico would be about his habit of putting holes in walls. 

But John is here, across a checkered table cornered in an open-air restaurant, gleeful face lit by warm-toned fairy lights. He’s smiling at Sherlock with a soft fondness he has committed to memory by now, even though Sherlock has done virtually nothing but sit and half-heartedly stare at the glass of wine before him. He doesn’t dare look at John or his dimpled smile, because between the one-and-a-half glasses of Merlot and that beautiful expression his friend is wearing, Sherlock could very easily imagine this as a date rather than a simple dinner between friends. Best friends. 

It’s been four minutes and sixteen seconds since their server took their order, and Sherlock feels the desperate need to fill the comfortable silence between them. Something, anything. 

Suddenly, “I dreamt last night.” 

_Stupid._

“Did you?” John says, his eyebrow raising in question. “What of?”

Eyes shifting from his friend to his fidgeting hands, he answers honestly. “We were watching a mariachi band play while we ate, and you somehow convinced me to ask the violinist to play his instrument.” He scoffs. Of course, John could convince him to do anything in the world and Sherlock would be more than happy to indulge him. 

John beams. “That’s ironic.” 

“What, why?” 

John only chuckles and nods his head towards Sherlock’s right. He turns, curious, and his mouth parts in surprise. 

A mariachi band is in the midst of assembling, and at the front of the group, a violinist opens his case in hopes of appreciative Mexican pesos. 

Sherlock twists back to John, whose smile doesn’t even begin to falter. It widens. “Go on, then.” 

He rolls his eyes, inwardly chastising himself for the rude habit. “Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“‘M not,” he argues. “You’re a talent, Sherlock, brilliant at it, really. And you dreamt about it last night!”

“What does that have to do with it?” he asks. He feels himself melt under the praise, but is stubborn enough to maintain his composure. 

“What is it that Mycroft says?” John muses. “There’s no such thing as coincidences—the universe is rarely so lazy.”

John looks at him, eyebrows raised in a challenge, a soft smirk on his lips. “Go on. Impress me.” 

Sherlock was already going to say yes, but at those words, he’s leaping out of his chair in one swift motion and walking the short distance to the violinist. Acquiring the violin is surprisingly easy; a quick request in Spanish and a friendly smile, and the familiar weight is in his left hand. He flexes his fingers and spares a glance John’s way; he’s standing, now, and his smile is absolutely blinding. This is all the encouragement he needs. 

Vivaldi’s Violin Concerto in A minor is perfect for showing off. Elementary, really, he learned it at age nine, but a particular solo at the end of the piece is flashy enough to raise eyebrows. The violin is far from special, but he’s always had a knack for making any instrument sound clear and bright. An inadvertent smile tugs at his lips. Performing is third on his list of favorite things. 

(Second being solving a difficult case, and first being spending any sort of time with John. He supposes that the two are not mutually exclusive.)

The final note rings through the square, and Sherlock ends with strong vibrato and a flourish. There’s a brief moment of silence before the wild applause of tourists and natives alike.

His gaze immediately snaps to John. His applause is louder than the rest, or perhaps (certainly) Sherlock is only interested in his opinion—so much so that he disregards the praise of anyone else. 

He returns the violin with quiet thanks and walks to their table in a haze. All he sees is John. John, John, John, radiant and beautiful and Sherlock is crowding his space without noticing, but he can’t bring himself to step away. Granted, John doesn’t move, either. 

He’s looking up at him with unmasked awe. “That was...amazing.” 

Sherlock is instantly reminded of their first night together, of the first time John gave him that _look_ , that _smile_ , those _words_...

He’s drawn to John like a moth to flame, and he’s known it for years. There’s no use denying it any longer, he _can’t_ , not when John’s gaze is flitting between Sherlock’s lips and eyes, eyes that he is certain are giving every suppressed emotion away. He can’t bring himself to care anymore. 

Sherlock’s throat feels dry, dangerously so, but his eyes are traitorously misty. “Are you impressed?” 

The air between them is suddenly charged with something entirely new. It’s intoxicating. He’s never felt so exposed in his life. 

John nods almost imperceptibly. His eyes meet Sherlock’s, and his eyebrows knit in a silent question. 

Sherlock has never been good at these things, and he never makes decisions without an educated guess, but there’s something behind John’s gaze that makes him want to take a risk. 

A hesitant hand cups John’s face, his eyes searching and searching for something, anything, to confirm that yes, he wants this, he wants this just as much as Sherlock does. 

John answers the question for him.

Sherlock watches, mesmerized, as John grabs him by the lapels of his Belfast and leans forward on his toes. One last glance up at his eyes. Then, the shyest brush of lips on his.

Sherlock lets out a shaky sigh against his mouth. Slips his hands into John’s soft hair, just like he’s dreamed of doing dozens—no, hundreds—of times before. Ducks his head and surges forward to press their mouths together once more. Warm, so warm, and slick when John licks at his bottom lip. He tastes of red wine.

Sherlock feels that his knees might just give out, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing? 

Later, he’ll be painfully aware that this is all completely new to him. He’s never done any of it before, never _felt_ anything like it before, and John has done it countless times. John will come to tell him that he hasn’t felt quite this way, either. Nothing like what he feels for Sherlock. 

As of now, all that Sherlock can focus on is the feeling of John, John, John, pliant and warm, firm arms wrapped around his neck, and mouth nipping at the junction where neck meets jaw. 

He forgets to breathe, and sucks in air when John pulls away to rest their foreheads together. They breathe into each other’s mouths, hot and fast and urgent.

A beat, and then laughter. Short, lively giggles against Sherlock’s cheek, echoing in the hollow of his ear. 

Sherlock can’t contain his grin. 

“Dreams really do come true, don’t they, Sherlock Holmes?”

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve been reading copious amounts of Johnlock fics while in mexico, and i’ve been having more and more “that’s the dream” moments. something that’s specific and somewhat unlikely, but if they happened, you could die satisfied? those moments. all of these will be in different universes, different prompts, different scenarios. 
> 
> i actually did play a mariachi band’s violin in oaxaca two weeks ago. it’s first on the list of “that’s the dream” moments. next is “getting hammered at a wedding.” 
> 
> royalworldtraveler on tumblr if you want to say hi :)
> 
> kudos and especially comments are so greatly appreciated. happy travels!


End file.
